


Love Boat

by RedHotLover (Parker4131970)



Category: due South
Genre: F/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-12 21:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2125947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parker4131970/pseuds/RedHotLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What else is there to do in the middle of Lake Michigan??</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are encouraged. This is my first explicit fan fic.

_**Meg's Office ….** _

“I've got to get home, ugg, I really need some private time.” Meg thought as she gathered her things up to leave for the weekend. Just as she was fastening the latches on her briefcase the phone ring. After a muttered, French curse word, she answered.

“Hello, Canadian Consulate, Inspector Thatcher speaking.” She rolled out quickly. From the caller on the other end, she knew it wouldn't be a quick kind of call.

“Inspector, this is Constable Fraser, I'm afraid I require your assistance.” Meg could have strangled him and she didn't even know what for yet. “I'm being detained at the harbor, it seems they don't believe I'm a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman, the customs officer insists that this is a rented uniform and that I am impersonating an officer of the Canadian government.” Meg heard Dief whining in the background.

“Just what I needed.” the Inspector muttered to herself.

“What did you say, Sir?” Fraser asked, his keen ears sharp even over the telephone.

“I'll be there shortly, depending on rush hour traffic.” without another word, Meg hung up the phone. She caught a cab, cursing Fraser and lack of alone time in turn. No matter what brand or style of bra Meg found, none of them fit properly. She'd been looking forward to unhooking it and tossing it into the laundry hamper, along with her black, thigh high stockings. Strappy, stiletto heels weren't in her evening wardrobe plans either.

“I've got nine.” the young cab driver said with a smile in the rear view mirror. Meg fished out a ten and a few ones and handed them through the mirror. She walked toward the most official looking office on the premises, a low slung, block building with a US Customs logo emblazoned across the door. As she marched her bra nearly rubbed a blister on either side of her full breasts, into the soft skin.

“What's the meaning of this?” Meg demanded after throwing the heavy metal door open.

“Inspector Thatcher, this is ….” a short, chubby official in a light blue uniform shirt stood up from behind an old, metal desk. Rules and regulation posters hung on the walls surrounded the desk.

“Inspector Handson, and I could ask you the same question.” his dark, beady eyes looked Meg over lecherously. She looked down her nose at him in return. That kind of man she wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, unless she intended to hit him with it.

“This man claims he's an RMCP officer, a patently ridiculous idea.” he gave Fraser a sour expression. The Mountie's face was entirely too neutral, too handsome. His uniform appeared fresh off the sewing machine.

“This is indeed Constable Benton Fraser, my subordinate officer here at the Canadian Consulate.” Meg pulled her credentials from her purse and opened them, shoving them under Handson's nose. His dark eyes scanned the leather wallet holding the Inspector's photo identification and badge.

“Thank you, Inspector Margaret Thatcher.” Handson snatched the wallet from Meg's grasp, pulling a hand gun from beneath a file with his free hand.

Fraser started toward the smaller man, Dief bristling beside him.

“Call him off, Inspector, I'll pull the trigger.” Handson warned, thumb cocking the handgun.

“Fraser, stop.” she complied, studying the little man. His hand didn't waver and his breathing was calm and even. He wasn't playing around or inexperienced.

Fraser and Dief halted, a low, menacing growl in the wolf's throat.

“Now both of you, get together, we're going for a walk.” Handson waved the Inspector across the room to stand beside Fraser.

“Open the door, slowly.” Handson used Meg's ID as a pointer. Inspector and Mountie obeyed, keeping a wary eye on the sawed off gunman.

“What's all this about, what do you want?” Meg asked, hoping to distract him.

“None of your business, don't ask questions or I start with the wolf.” Handson shoved the gun barrel between Meg's shoulder blades as she walked slowly out the door. He shoved Fraser with his free hand, making sure the wolf stepped through as well.

“We're headed for the tub two boats down.”

Fraser and Thatcher walked slowly and carefully toward an aging yacht parked along the dock. Compared to the tankers and cargo vessels surrounding it, the smaller, pleasure craft was decidedly out of place.

Meg kept glancing at Fraser, wondering when he would make a break for freedom. The Mountie ignored her piercing glances. He couldn't think of a scenario where one of them didn't end up wounded.

“In you go.” Handson pointed the handgun at the yacht, a thirty foot outfit with a blue stripe just above the waterline. In glittering, orange letters the name _Gettin' Lucky_ blazed near the starboard foredeck.

“Ha! Not so lucky for you, eh?” Handson snickered, waiting on Thatcher to board the yacht. She turned and glared at him, biting her tongue. A light weight business suit wasn't the ideal outfit for being kidnapped in late September. Chilly winds skittering across the lake had already made her shiver, tightening her muscles. Fraser seemed unaffected by the chill.

 _“He would be, he has on an undershirt, a long sleeved Henley, and wool serge.”_ Meg thought to herself, envying him his layers. What she didn't know was that he also had on red long johns. Thoughts of all those layers all over Fraser's muscular frame distracted her for a moment. More than one moment if she were honest.

“Go on, into the rear cabin.” Handson bullied them onward. The yacht had been decorated in oranges and blues with splashes of lime green and bright yellow.

“This place looks like a fruit salad threw up.” Meg commented, following Fraser into the large, rear cabin. The cabin had been fortified to be locked from the outside. This heist had taken a lot of planning and forethought. A small, round, high, window lit their cell.

Two Canadians and a wolf walked into the cabin. A large, round bed set against the right of the cabin, an orange, velvet, coverlet spread across it. A white dust ruffle fluttered as they entered.

“Wolfie here goes with me, I need a little insurance.” Handson took Dief by the scruff of the neck and pulled him backward, out the door. The wolf growled, turning his menacing glare over his shoulder at the man with the handgun.

“Don't worry, I'll turn him loose a few blocks away, just another mutt on the streets.” Handson pressed the handgun against Dief's head as he scooted backward out the door.

Before Fraser or Thatcher could react, Handson slammed the cabin door closed and began bolting and locking it from the outside. Dief growled and barked. After a heavy thud, Dief whined and grew quiet. Fraser pounded his fist against the reinforced door.

“Damn it!” Meg hissed. No alone time _and_ stuck on a fugly tub with Fraser. Under different circumstances that would be a good thing.

“Yes, I agree.” Fraser sighed, leaning against the door, both hands flat against the cool metal. Meg stood stock still, eyes glued to his long legs, narrow waist and broad back. Duck tails touched the brim of his Stetson. She should scold him for needing a hair cut but she wanted to run her fingers through them; to see if they were as soft as they looked.

 _“Get a grip, Meg, it's Fraser, he may as well be a_ _monk.”_ She reminded herself.

“There has to be a way out of this.” Meg straightened her jacket, wishing she'd worn slacks and flats. She started to repeat herself when Fraser didn't respond. He'd cocked his head toward the door, his eyes closed. Meg felt the boat begin to sway under her feet.

“They've set us adrift.” She nearly panicked.

“No, I hear a small, out board motor, I believe Handson means to take us out into the lake and set us adrift.” Fraser turned back to her. Her dark eyes were wide and her alabaster skin pale.

“Handson will shoot us and dump us overboard, no one will find out bodies in Lake Michigan.” the lake never gave up it's dead.

“Perhaps not, Sir, he did go to great pains to lock us inside this cabin, and he never actually injured us.” Fraser ran his tongue over his bottom lip as he met her gaze. He tried to sound reassuring.

“I hope you're right.” She swallowed hard and took a calming breath. She was after all, the commanding officer.

***

 


	2. Stranded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elasticity

_**Listening ....** _

Both Canadians strained to listen to the small motor pushing the yacht into the lake. For the next hour they proceed at a leisurely pace out into the lake. They heard the engine cut off and the sound of splashing before another engine started up.

“Well, here we are, stuck in the middle of Lake Michigan.” Meg's fists rested on her hips as she stared at the yellow carpet. Her purse and briefcase lay on the ugly bedspread.

Fraser began examining the room, partly to find a way out and partly to avoid the sight of his superior officer drawing attention to her feminine wiles without even knowing. He opened the first door to the left of the cabin door. There he found a small closet, empty except for two, wire hangers. The next door Ben opened was to a lavishly decorated bathroom almost as large as the sleeping cabin. A mildewed shower curtain hung on the rod. Lime build up had crusted the shower head, sink faucet and the bottom of the jacuzzi.

“We have very little to work with to free ourselves.” Fraser returned to the cabin, lost in thought. Inspector Thatcher had set down in the middle of the bed, her bare feet tucked underneath her, hugging herself. She looked up at him when he spoke.

“Are you cold, Sir?” Fraser began unbuckling his Sam Browne to offer her his red serge.

“I'm fine, Constable Fraser, no need to concern yourself.” she refused with the wave of a hand.

“According to the weather bureau, a gale is due in tonight, the temperature is to drop sharply. Now, if my calculations are correct, we aren't in a major shipping lane, hopefully, the gale will push us into the main stream of commercial traffic.” Fraser rattled off, his mind working at lightning speed.

“If the gale moves us out into a shipping lane, how are those huge ships supposed to avoid us, I doubt Handson thought to leave any emergency lights burning.” Meg pointed out, her tone dry.

“That is a valid point, Sir.” Fraser agreed, thinking over their situation.

“I doubt he left food provisions either.” Meg grumbled. She'd forgone lunch in order to leave the consulate early for the weekend. Her stomach protested, growling loudly.

“Here you go, Sir, I just happen to have received a care package from Sergeant Frobisher yesterday, he thoughtfully included pemmican.” Fraser held out a sandwich bag of the spiced, preserved meat to her. She'd tasted it once, on a dare, and solemnly vowed never to again.

“Perhaps later, Fraser.” Meg answered with thinly disguised disgust.

“Yes, good thinking, Sir.” he sealed the savory scented meat and placed in one of his various pockets. Silence filled the cabin as both Mounties began thinking of ways to escape. They'd figure out why Handson had gone to all the trouble of luring Fraser and Thatcher to the harbor later, when they caught him.

Fraser stared at the window near the ceiling, their only clear way out of the boat. Meg pondered the door, thinking that if they could open it somehow, they could navigate the boat to civilization. Rain, mixed with hail, began spattering against the window.

“I believe that's the leading edge of the gale.” Fraser commented softly, standing up for a better look. He started to adjust the pouch of pemmican in his pocket and felt the clean handkerchief he always carried. The Mountie whirled around on his boot heal, his bright blue eyes shining like a neon sign.

“I've had an idea, Sir.” Fraser stepped across the room to the bed where she sat facing the door.

“Go on, Constable.” she turned her face up to him, suspicious of any idea the unruly officer had.

“I could use the shower curtain rod as a blow gun, with my handkerchief as a flag.” he held the handkerchief in hand her approval. Meg threw back the coverlet and pulled at the cotton sheet beneath.

“Give me your knife, Constable.” she demanded, her small hand outstretched and her expression expectant. Without question, Fraser fished out his pocket knife and handed it to her.

They worked in silence for a while, Fraser taking down the curtain rod and Margaret cutting the sheet into a long, thin strip. Working with her hands warmed the Inspector up somewhat. She still envied Fraser his uniform tunic.

When it came time to put the blow gun through the window Fraser uttered words that Margaret definitely didn't want to hear.

“Oh dear.” He stood in the middle of the cabin with the curtain rod through the window.

“Oh dear, what, Fraser?” Meg demanded, fists on her hips again.

“I haven't the breath to blow the flag the length of the rod against the wind.” he looked at her, an apology in his blue eyes. Meg could have strangled him.

“Do you happen to have a rubber band in your briefcase, Sir?” Fraser asked, an alternative plan in mind.

“No, I don't.” Meg ran her fingers through her hair, pacing the room. Rubber bands, what else is like a rubber band. As she paced, Meg went over everything she had on her person. The under wire of her bra pinched the tender skin between her breast and arm pit.

“Would elastic work, Constable Fraser?” Meg tried to make herself meet his confused gaze.

“Yes, Sir, better than a rubber band actually.” He peered keenly at her, wondering where she would come up with elastic out of thin air.

“Give me a moment and I'll have some for you.” Meg took a deep breath. She hoped that the effort was worth the sacrifice of her bra. “Oh, and I need your pocket knife again.” she demanded, avoiding eye contact. He handed it over without question.

Meg straightened her back before walking into the bathroom and locking the door behind her. After pulling her jacket and blouse off, she removed her best bra and began cutting the elastic away from the cups. The new, red elastic had ample spring in it. Once redressed, Meg exited the bathroom, elastic and pocket knife in hand.

“Here you are, Constable, see if you can use this in the fashion of a sling shot.” she handed him the elastic quickly, dropping it in his hand. Fraser cocked his head to the side, confused. Meg saw realization spark in his blue eyes. He nodded and turned away.

“Yes, Sir.” Fraser handed Margaret the end of the bed sheet string and fastened the elastic around the curtain rod. With the flag attached to the string, folded up tightly, he pulled back on the elastic and sent it shooting through the rod and into the sky. Meg and Fraser watched as the flag fluttered in the strong winds of the gale. Fraser tied it off to the hinge of the window before closing it.  

***


	3. The Shocking 'M' Word!

As the storm worsened, the temperature dropped and the amount of light coming through the window diminished to nothing. Meg shivered as she sat beneath the musty smelling coverlet. Fraser worked on the door with the wire coat hangers, trying to unfasten the bolt holding it in place. The clatter of the coat hanger against the bolt drove Meg crazy.

“Constable, will you stop that infernal racket.” she snapped suddenly before she realized.

“Understood.” Fraser pulled the coat hanger from between the door and the frame, lay it on the dresser top. He went to stand looking out the window silently.

“How cold is it supposed to be tonight, Fraser?” Meg asked, trying to make conversation. She wondered if she could see her breath fog yet.

“Well below freezing, Sir.” Fraser turned around, treading quietly to the bedside.

“Great, we'll be fish sticks when they find us.” Meg chuckled dryly, her teeth chattering.

“You aren't properly dressed to withstand such temperatures, that's not to say that you aren't properly dressed, Sir, you dress very well, but ….” Fraser blathered on a moment before Meg cut him off.

“Yes, Constable, I understand, I don't have on long johns and a parka.” she shook her head, angry with him, with herself and at the situation in general.

“While in Depot, we were taught several ways to conserve body heat.”

Meg snickered, she knew all those techniques too. “This isn't the wilderness, we can't build a snow cave, there aren't any evergreen limbs, no arctic sleeping bag to share, nothing to set on fire for warmth without burning the whole ship. What do you suggest, Fraser, sharing a bed tonight?” she could almost see him running his thumb nail over his eye brow or running a finger behind his earlobe before tugging on it gently. The silence spoke for him.

“You _do_ suggest we share the bed tonight!” She crossed her arms over her chest, drawing in on herself.

“Unless you have another suggestion.” Fraser said casually.

“Why couldn't I have left the office five minutes earlier, I'd be home, in bed, masturbating by now.” Meg lamented without thinking. Fraser's gasp was the only noise in the cabin other than the gale outside the ship.

“Oh dear.” Fraser said feebly.

Meg cursed aloud. She hadn't mean to say that, regardless of her company.

“It's a perfectly natural activity practiced by many cultures, most notably the ….”

“Do you masturbate, Fraser?” Meg interrupted him. The cat was already out of the bag, why not run with it?

“What?” Ben heard the sound of his own, high pitched voice answer. No one had ever asked him such a question. He'd been intimate before, though not recently. Listening to Ray recount his dates and past encounters was as close to sex as the Mountie came lately.

“Do you masturbate, do you touch yourself for pleasure, it's a simple, yes or no question.” Meg asked again, wanting to know more. Her husky voice carried through the storm beating outside. Did he dream of her when he needed inspiration? Was it her body that he fantasized about? She certainly used his form for her own inspiration.

“I, uh, well, I, you see, that is,” Fraser stammered worse. The room seemed to grow smaller and hotter. He began pulling on his tightening collar. Why did his heart race, his breathing increase or his stomach clench? He heard the bed springs creak as the Inspector moved.

“Constable Fraser, do you lay awake at night, pleasuring yourself?” Her voice came closer in the darkness, more lush and throaty than before. Meg moved onto her knees on the bed.

“I, I, yes, on occasion.” Ben's knees felt like wet noodles. He shivered involuntarily.

Meg stepped up to her subordinate officer and ran her hand up his arm in the darkness. Her fingers found his smooth jaw, her thumb caressing his lower lip. Meg pressed her body against his, scraping her bare knee against his. Quickly, she began fumbling with the buttons of his tunic, rising on tip toes to kiss him. His mouth parted for her, his tongue meeting hers. When his Sam Brown hit the floor the Mountie groaned. Meg slid his tunic off his shoulders, sliding her hands down his arms. She took his idle hands and placed them on her hips, kissing his jaw, his neck, any warm skin she could find.

“Do you fantasize about this, Ben?” Meg whispered in his ear, pressing herself against him.

“Every night.” he answered, his throat thick with suppressed pleasure.

“Am I the one in control in the fantasy or are you?” She edged her hip against his inner thigh, causing him to shudder.

“Tonight you are.” He cupped her ass and pulled her against him. His trousers were tented, his heavy cock straining against the thick material of his long johns and pants. Meg unfastened the waistband and began on the zipper, her fingers purposely dragging against his erection.

“Torture.” Ben groaned, pulling her skirt up to feel her flesh against his palms.

“I will if you want me to.” Meg volunteered, teasing in her voice. She sank down his frame, slipping her fingers into his long johns' fly. Two or three buttons zipped across the room as she tugged on the material, trying to release his cock. Lightning fast, Ben unfastened the red, flannel underwear, shoving off his Henley and suspenders.

“Damn, Ben.” Meg exclaimed as she put both hands around his engorged penis.

Ben felt her hot breath on his throbbing cock. A second more and she would have her mouth wrapped around the head, her small but strong hands rhythmically stroking the length of him.

“No, please.” Ben pulled away, his breathing ragged and his mind reeling. Was the woman he'd been both attracted to and forbidden to love on her knees preparing to fulfill his fantasy? Ben didn't want a illusion, he wanted Meg, all of her or nothing. They could follow this to it's conclusion and never speak of it again, or he could save them both the heartache.

“What do you mean, Ben?” Meg sat back on her heels.

“I don't want a cheap substitution for what we both deserve, I want to make _love_ to you.” Ben gritted his teeth to steady himself. He wanted more than messy sex and hot kisses. He wanted to hold Meg's hand when he needed comfort, to share her life.

“Love?” Meg repeated, blown away. They had chemistry, sure, passion and fire, yes, but love? She'd never dreamed Ben could love her. She's been prepared for harmless fun. His restraint spoke volumes about how deeply he cared and respected her.

“Then make love to me, Ben, show me what you can't seem to tell me.” Meg stood up again, her voice soft in the inky blackness surrounding them. She slid her arms around his neck, her head on his shoulder. Slowly, Ben put his arms around her, taking in her scent that he remembered so well.

“I have so much to share with you.” he murmured against her hair.

The round bed lay surprisingly well. Meg helped Ben off with his clothes, taking things slow and easy the second time around. Darkness made them both clumsy, eliciting giggles from Meg and laughter from Ben. The gale rocked the yacht like a cradle as they sank into the plush bed together. Meg enjoyed the way Ben caressed her body, as though he were worshiping every centimeter. He found the spot along the outside of her breast where under wire chaffed her skin.

“What's this?” he gently touched the dry spot about the size of a quarter.

“Oh, that's where my bra irritates my skin.” she felt him press a tender kiss to the small area. Meg wanted him to kiss every inch of her, to take her tensions away.

“You don't have to wear such a thing, you're wonderfully endowed with out it.” Ben pressed a kiss between her breasts, his large, rough hands cupping them.

“I've never thought I had much to brag about.” Meg ran her fingers through Ben's softly curling hair, ruffling the strands at the back of his neck.

“You have so much to glory in, dips and curves to be explored.” Ben's expert tongue licked under her breast. He pressed kisses down her body, his hands dancing lightly over her sides and down her thighs. Meg shivered at the butterfly touches. She felt her core flood, waiting for him to search her depths thoroughly. She whimpered when he began kissing the bend of her knee, his lips hot on her cool skin. Meg tugged on his hair, willing him to hasten her orgasm. She felt the tip of the explosion in the pit of her stomach.

Ben worked his way back up her body, taking pleasure in her silky skin and taunt muscles. He could barely control his urgent need for release. Meg raked her heel up his calf as she positioned herself, urging him downward. He entered her silken, wet folds gently. Meg's body radiated heat. She arched against him, her hands clutching at his back, his ass, anything that would pull him into her. Ben sank into her.

“You're so big.” Meg moaned, taking hold of his penis. His firm balls filled her palm. She had to ease him deeper inside, stroking his manhood. Ben gasped before thrusting again. He soughed her name over and over as he rocked them into oblivion. Meg spasmed as orgasm overtook her, driving Ben deeper. She felt his hot, thick cum spill, warming her loins. She tightened around him, unable to control her own body. For a minute or two, Ben thrust harder, taking advantage of her. He didn't want to break their intimate connection yet. Reluctantly, he separated himself from her.

“Benton.” Meg's voice shook as she whispered in his ear, her fingers in his hair.

“Yes?” he asked, pulling back, searching for her face in the darkness.

“Thank you.” she wiped tears from her eyes. She reveled in his warmth, in the heat they'd generated together during the gale.

“I should thank you, you came to my rescue.” he kissed her neck, his finger tip swirling around her nipple lazily. Everything had happened so fast. Meg lay against his body, her head on his shoulder, her breathing beginning to slow.

“Part of me doesn't want to be found.” Meg tilted her head up to talk.

“I understand what you mean.” Ben kissed her lips gently, his mind beginning to grow fuzzy.

***

 


	4. Sorry

The next morning, Ben found himself curled up to a warm, soft form that wasn't covered in fur. His eyes flew open. Pale light streamed in through the round window overhead, creating a shaft of illumination around the bed. In the weak light, the Mountie gazed at his sleeping companion. Meg lay facing him, her nose against his chest, strands of her dark hair scattered across the pillow. Her jet black eye lashes lay like dark lace on her pale cheeks. Ben lay still, not daring to wake her, to break the spell. He watched as those dark eyes slowly opened and looked up at him. Meg's pale red lips quirked up into a sleepy, happy smile.

“That was better than what I had planned for last night.” She spoke softly, her smile spreading. His blue eyes searched hers, thoughts and emotions swirling under his calm exterior. Meg wondered at the contrast between his features and his eyes. She knew he'd been hurt in the past, it was RCMP gossip. Poor Fraser, falling in love with an American bank robber and having to lock her away. Meg knew she'd added to his pain in some ways.

Unsure of what to say, Ben ran his fingers across her cheek and down her arm. She'd opened up to him, set aside her defenses for a while. His heart wanted that to last forever, but his head told him that it wouldn't. She'd opened up to him before, if only a key hole, before slamming the door abruptly in his face. She, Inspector Thatcher, Margaret Thatcher, _Meg_ , may slam the door gain, order him to forget, but he wouldn't. He couldn't obey that order, his heart wouldn't let him.

“What's on your mind, you're looking at me like you've never seen me before.” Meg asked, running her fingers through his hair and down his back. She felt the muscles of his back, the faint firmness of his ribs beneath the skin.

“You're stunning in this light.” Ben answered, telling the truth but not the one that would ruin the moment. He was rewarded with an unguarded smile.

“Thank you.” Meg shifted to be closer, to snuggle into his embrace. Her fingers slid beneath his Henley. She found a rough spot along his spine. She stopped and let her fingertips explore. Ben's eyes closed, his expression a mask for his emotions. Meg moved her hand, sorry she'd every found that spot along his eighth thoracic vertebra.

“Ben, I'm so sorry.” Meg whispered sadly. The woman before her had left him marked for life, both physically and emotionally.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Meg.” Ben gave her a lopsided smile before kissing her softly.

 _“Someone should make her sorry.”_ Meg thought to herself, biting on her lower lip as she held Ben tightly.

 


End file.
